The Cenotaph

I want to leave this place unremembered. The gas stove is leaking and the door of the refrigerator stained with rust. The mugs are ugly and there are only two forks. The walls are black and soft, the bed a balloon of night-clothing. The stairwell sloped to a dragger’s pace. There are big windows with blind-slats dusty and gray. Street life goes all night and at dawn freedmen shout and laugh outside the kitchen. Where does life begin and end? In the lamb or the cotton? My pillow is my friend.